


Of 2am Feeds And Much Deprivation

by sheafrotherdon



Series: A Farm in Iowa 'Verse [8]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-22
Updated: 2007-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The needs of wee baby Finn McKay, and his sleep-deprived, utterly addled, brand-new fathers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of 2am Feeds And Much Deprivation

"He's down," John mumbles hoarsely, stumbling back into the bedroom after Finn's 2am feed. "How long's he gonna – " A jaw-cracking yawn momentarily interrupts. "With the – " He waves one hand to encompass the untold weeks of night feedings ahead, and promptly trips over one of Rodney's abandoned shoes. He windmills his arms to try and regain his balance, grabs at the quilt as he falls, and swears loudly when he face-plants into his own odiferous socks. "Ow," he manages weakly, then "s'okay, m'fine, I'm fine . . . " Gingerly he pushes himself up to his knees and peers at the bed.

It's shaking.

He gapes. "Are you _laughing_?"

Rodney rolls onto his back and wheezes.

John gapes some more. " _Bastard_!"

Rodney gurgles something that might be an excuse or an apology or even a gypsy curse for all the sense it makes and clutches at his belly, rocking helplessly from side to side.

John stands up, wincing at his stinging knees. "McKay!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Rodney offers weakly, hiccoughing laughter. "You just – with the arms!" And he dissolves into mirth again, hooting as John launches himself at the bed, wrestling Rodney into submission until he has his hands pinned above his head.

"I just got up at – " John glances at the alarm clock. "2.17am to feed your son."

Rodney nods, lips mashed together, trying to keep the laughter inside. It escapes despite his best efforts as a warbling, garbled snort.

"And then I trip over _your_ shoes . . . "

Rodney keens afresh at the idea.

". . . and you _laugh_ at me?"

The only answer John receives is an explosive guffaw accompanied by wriggling that suggests Rodney wants to curl up into a frothing, gibbering ball of glee.

"Oh it's on," John mutters, and lets go of Rodney's hands to worm his fingers under the blankets, aiming straight for Rodney's ribs, his waist, playing utterly dirty and making Rodney yelp and squirm. "Shhhh!" John hisses.

Rodney gulps air. "You shhhhh!" he wheezes

"So help me, if you wake Finn . . ."

"You started it!" Rodney whispers, and retaliates, inching his fingers into one of John's armpits, causing John to emit an unearthly noise before he haw-haw-haws like the neighborhood mule.

" _Rodney_ ," he manages, just before he's flipped onto his back and Rodney's blowing a raspberry on his stomach – an immature move that nevertheless makes John haw-haw with even greater vigor and Rodney grin happily in the two seconds before John flips them back.

Rodney only cackles at that – a thoroughly unnerving sound – whistling and wheezing while John turns around and sits on his chest, throwing back the covers to expose Rodney's feet. "Not feet, not feeeeheheeheheheeheheeheeeeee . . . . " Rodney chokes, wriggling and squirming and grabbing at John's ass, all the while yelping his laughter, making John laugh too.

"Uncle?" John asks, trying to keep his elbows pressed tight against his ribs to protect his vulnerable underarms.

"Never!" Rodney cries, doing his damnedest to buck John off.

John leans forward and tickles Rodney's feet even more relentlessly – an error in judgment, it turns out, giving Rodney the opportunity to sit up behind him, wrap his arms around John's chest, and pull him back into his lap. He can feel Rodney pressing hard against him, lets his smile become a gasp as Rodney shifts his hips. "We so don't have the energy for this," he says, leaning back, breath catching, skin still humming with the rush of so much levity.

"Oh, but a wrestling match at 2am, that we have energy for," Rodney whispers, nosing an unrepentant smile to the line of John's back, sliding his hand to cup John through his shorts.

"Oh Jesus," John whispers, body surging forward with forgotten attraction. "How long since we – since we . . . ?"

"Too long," Rodney groans. He fumbles, trying to get his hand inside John's boxers. "God!" he mutters, frustrated and uncoordinated.

"Just – let me . . . _Rodney_ ," John says, pushing at his hand, gracelessly climbing off him, kneeing him in the thigh as he turns around.

"Fuck!" Rodney yelps.

"Just – "

"Stop with the – watch your elbows!"

" _Tha wah mah dose!_ "

"Oh, oh, oh god, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just – I can't see, it's dark and you . . . "

"Just – " John solves the whole thing by flopping on top of Rodney and sprawling there, holding him down. "If we stop moving," he whispers, "maybe we'll stop with the – " He hitches a shoulder.

"Is your nose okay?" Rodney asks anxiously.

"Yes, it's _fine_ , but this _hard on_ in my pants is – "

" _Very_ subtle."

John squints at him. "Is that geek code for small?"

"What?" Rodney smacks him up the back of the head. "I meant _you_ were being – oh for crying out . . . " And he lifts his head, kisses John slow and dirty, rolls his hips and makes them both gasp. "You are not small. You are, however, _incredibly frustrating_ and if we don't fuck within the next thirty seconds I am going to _fall asleep_ from general parental exhaustion and _then_ you'll be sorry."

"Yeah," John fervently agrees, "I'm – yeah, can we . . . " He plucks at Rodney's boxers. "Off."

"With my present level of coordination I will _take out your eye_ ," Rodney counsels, and grabs John's ass, pulling him down against him, grinding their hips together so that they both groan. "We'll take them off afterwards."

"Best idea ever," John mumbles, tucking his face against Rodney's neck, thrusting down as Rodney thrusts up. "Best, best . . . "

"Shut up," Rodney gasps, breath hitching, scraping his nails across the John's spine. "Shut up and just – " He shivers as John thrusts again. "Like that, yes, oh god, _John_ – please please please . . . "

It's uncoordinated and messy and the angle's all wrong and John remembers the days when they had hours to touch and taste and drive each other crazy, but god, there's something about this – this desperate, affectionate clumsiness, these garbled half-words and the jut of ill-fitting hipbones and the sting of beard burn and the chafe of cotton that –

"Oh. _Oh_ – " Rodney whispers as he tenses beneath John, grabbing his shoulders as he comes.

John swallows and whimpers, following into freefall, coming back to himself to find the sheets tangled around one foot and his underwear uncomfortably damp. "Wow," he manages, lifting his head enough to kiss the corner of Rodney's mouth.

"You're heavy," Rodney mumbles, blissed out and unthinking.

"Comfy," John offers, then frowns. "You," he clarifies.

"Mmmmph," Rodney nods, arms tightening around John as the latter tries to move. "No."

John makes a noise of protest. "Sticky and – " He tries to shift and protests again.

"Morning," Rodney yawns, clutching him in a vice grip.

John slumps against him again. "Gross."

"Hmmmm," Rodney agrees.

"No laughing," John counsels, foreseeing the scene in the shower come breakfast.

There's a pause, then Rodney's shoulders begin to shake. "My shoe," he wheezes, and John's forced to kiss him, just to shut him up.


End file.
